It was one of those bone-chilling afternoons when heavy gray clouds pressed down, and the city seemed to groan under its own weight. Maria, the maid, had just finished sweeping the grand Lancaster mansion’s front steps. Her hands were numb, her apron streaked with dirt from hours of labor, yet her heart beat warm and fierce.
As she bent down to shake out the doormat, a flicker of movement caught her eye. There, beyond the wrought-iron gate, stood a small figure.
A boy. Barefoot, trembling, smeared with grime. His sunken, hungry eyes locked onto the mansion’s front door.
Maria moved toward the gate. “Are you lost, darling?” she asked softly.
No reply. Her gaze shifted to the bowl of rice and beans she’d set moments ago on the porch steps.
Her eyes flicked back to the house. Mr. Lancaster, the master of this estate, was away. He always returned after dark and rarely noticed the world beyond his polished staircase. The butler was off in town. Everything seemed clear.
She pushed open the gate.
“Come. Just for a moment,” she whispered.
The boy hesitated but then followed. Not a word. Clothes barely clinging to his frame, dirty, hair tangled and wild. Maria led him to the back kitchen, seating him at the pantry’s small table.
She set the warm bowl before him.
“Eat,” she urged in a quiet voice.
He met her eyes once, then buried his face in the food. Tears welled up, unbidden, as he ate as if days had passed since his last meal. Her hands trembled, streaks of food smearing her cheeks.
Maria lingered by the stove, silent, clutching the crucifix hanging at her neck.
He must have been no older than six.
What Maria did not know was that James Lancaster, master of this mansion, had come home early. Interrupted by a dull meeting in the city, he returned ahead of schedule. Pulling into the driveway, he noticed the gate ajar and frowned.
Stepping inside, expecting the familiar hush of an empty house, a new sound caught him—the clinking of cutlery, a soft scraping.
He followed it—straight to the kitchen.
There, frozen in disbelief, he saw Maria in the corner, watching the ragged boy devour food from a porcelain bowl. The shock nearly made him drop his briefcase.
Maria turned away, pale as death. “Sir—I… I can explain.”
James raised a hand to silence her.
He said nothing.
Instead, his gaze held steady.
At the boy.
At the stained fingers clutching a silver spoon.
At the spark of joy flickering in his eyes.
And deep within, something inside James Lancaster shifted forever.